But Sally thought that they had better get dressed, and said so. When Sally said things in that way, there was no appeal, and Charlie submitted, with not more objection than would have been expected, to a rapid sponge; for it had not occurred to Sally, the night before, to find out about a bathtub. It might very well be that the house had been built before the era of bathtubs and that no such useless encumbrance had been added. Cousin Martha herself solved that difficulty for her. There was a gentle tap at her door. "Sally," called Cousin Martha's voice, "here is your hot water. Do you know about the tub?" "No," answered Sally, opening the door; "Charlie's had his bath, Cousin Martha, as good a one as I could give him, but I haven't." "You didn't splash water over the floor, did you?" Cousin Martha asked anxiously, scrutinizing the floor for any signs of wetting. "I tried not to," Sally replied. "It's hardly light enough to make sure." Miss Hazen had disappeared into Charlie's room and now reappeared bringing a tub. It was a large shallow pan, a sort of glorified milk pan, and might have been made of cast iron, judging from the way Miss Hazen carried it. It was not of cast iron, but of tin; the kind of tin that cannot be got in these days, even for love. "There!" said she, setting it down. "Thank you, Cousin Martha. It will be nice to have that. But you don't need to bring us hot water. We don't use it." "Why, Sally!" Cousin Martha cried in a horrified voice. "You don't bathe in cold water!" Sally nodded. "Not tempered at all?" "Just cold water," Sally responded. "But it will be very cold, later on," remonstrated Cousin Martha. "The water sometimes freezes in the pitcher." Sally chuckled. "Long as it doesn't freeze solid it's all right. I like it very cold. It prickles and stings me all over. We like it cold, don't we, Charlie?" Charlie grunted. He did not seem enthusiastic. Miss Hazen sighed as she shut the door. Breakfast was over, Uncle John had gone, and things had pretty well settled down for the day, and it still seemed very early to Sally. She and Charlie wandered in the yard before eight o'clock. That yard seemed very restricted. In the first place, it was bounded on every side except the front by a high wooden fence. The top of the fence was just about level with the top of Sally's head, so that she couldn't see over it without jumping up or climbing on something. Sally had thought of climbing, of course; but, first, she had to get Charlie acquainted with the yard, so that he would stay down contentedly. Charlie had not yet developed any particular aptitude for climbing trees.